Page 8 of Bare
‘I did not.’
‘You absolutely did. You took a sip, closed your eyes, and your shoulders dropped about two inches. That's not adequate. That's revelation.’
‘My shoulders are the same height they always are.’
‘Your shoulders are usually up by your ears. Right now they're where shoulders are meant to be. The coffee did that.’
‘The coffee is coffee.’
‘That coffee is from Nino’s. The Italian barman gets up forty minutes earlier than strictly necessary to get the grind right.’ He uncrossed his arms. Picked up his mug. Sipped. Coffee was sacrament. ‘You’re welcome, Mr Ashworth.’
‘What do you take?’ Rory said, after a pause, like the question had only just arrived. ‘When I next pass Nino's.’
Neil thought about lying. Thought about saying nothing.
‘Flat white. No sugar.’
‘Flat white, no sugar.’ Rory repeated it once. Didn't write it down. Didn't need to.
Neil said ‘Thanks’ and left.
In his classroom, he drank the rest standing at his desk and dropped the empty cup in the bin and the bin felt wrong. He'd thrown away evidence, and thought: Fuck.
Thursday. The doorway.
Staff room, narrow entrance. An architectural afterthought that had worked fine in the 1960s when teachers were thinner orfewer or both. Neil was leaving with his folder under one arm. Rory was entering. They met at the threshold.
Rory didn't step back.
He put one hand on the doorframe, right hand, paint under the nails in three colours, the sleeve of his shirt pushed back to show the forearm and the dark hair on it and the beginning of a tattoo that disappeared under the fabric. His arm was at shoulder height and the posture opened his body towards Neil and narrowed the gap between them.
‘After you, Mr Ashworth.’ Low. Unhurried from those three extra inches.
Neil turned sideways to edge past. Two seconds. Their chests inches apart. He could count the buttons on Rory's shirt, four, the top two open, showing the neck of the dark tee beneath and the hollow of his throat. The shadow of stubble along the jaw, the exact angle at which the lip ring sat against the curve of his mouth, the ring cool silver against the warm skin. Linseed, skin, and raw beneath it, the specific warmth of exertion, from paint mixed and walls primed and arms lifted overhead.
He squeezed through without breathing.
If he breathed, he'd touch him.
The cup clinked against his folder. He made it to the corridor.
In his classroom, he shut the door. Pressed his back against it. The wood was cool through his shirt.
He opened his markbook. Year 7 seating plan. Thompson, E. Needs separating from Morgan, J. Focus. The seating plan.
The seating plan did not help.
Friday morning. Period two. Year 7, Set 1. Twenty-eight faces in four rows of seven.
This was the thing nobody told you about teaching. Nobody told you about the minutes, sometimes ten, sometimes fifteen, when the room caught fire and you were holding the match and the flame wasn't yours at all but theirs, and all you'd done was create the conditions.
He'd given them the question: What's a story?
‘Something that happened,’ said Lily Adders. Front row. Already bored by the simplicity.
‘All right.’ Neil perched on the edge of his desk. ‘If I tell you I walked to school this morning. Is that a story?’
Uncertain faces.
